


Descendants of Gold

by loyaltybindshim



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, F/M, History, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaltybindshim/pseuds/loyaltybindshim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tudors could burn as easily as they could heal and wonder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/gifts).



**_She_ ** hoists an emerald jewel to the lobe of her ear, surveying it against her ivory complexion and the vivid, rufous tresses of her flowing hair. The small gemstone seemingly bore all of the wonders of the world in its verdant depths, but it was naught in comparison to Mary Tudor’s eyes, which were larger and rounder, complemented by a row of thick lashes and a sturdy brow-bone. At the height of vanity, her eyes dance across her shapely figure with pride, ephemeral uncertainty pulling at her brow as her name echoes from wall to wall inside her apartment.

“Henry!” Mary draws away from the mirror with quick, light steps, meeting her brother’s figure at the door with an aura of gaiety surrounding her. “You know, it is common courtesy to _knock_.”

Henry’s thumb ghosts over the lock, the apparition of a smile gracing his bee-stung lips. “That would be redundant,” he asserted. “You never lock it.” 

She chuckles, allowing his arms to pull her in, and presses her cheek against his beating heart. She knows it’s familiar cadence; it flutters in tandem with her own, and the librettos glide as easily as her favourite childhood melody.

“Wait,” he mumbles, forcing his hand into his pocket, pushing around a lighter and fishing out his wallet. Her brow quirks as he produces a picture from an inside compartment, displaying it on the rough, calloused palm of his hand.

“Is that…?” A gasp perishes in the column of her lithe throat as her forefinger dances across the laminated miniature; the intensity of her gaze knitting her ruby brows together. “She’s grown so much! How old is she now, _two_ ? _Three_?”

The face of a smiling infant claims Mary’s undivided attention. Her eyes mimic her father’s -- a rimy, resplendent blue -- and her hair is marked by the Plantagenet hallmark of a deep auburn hue. _Isabella Trastamara-Tudor_. Between college acceptances and final good-byes to youthful dependance, it had been an age since Mary last laid eyes upon her first (and therefor favourite) niece.

“Two and half. She plays Catherine and I like a harp already.” His smile lowered as his eyes take a turn around the room. “ _Well._ ” Stuffing the wallet in his pocket, he leaves the minature upon a granite counter and exclaims, “My, my, Mary Rose, who knew my sister was such a _decorator_?”

It was evident in his eyes that Henry jested, but Mary was not the least bit afflicted by it. “You flatter. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. Come-- I’ll show you what almost caused the parentals to have an _aneurysm._ Coffee?”

“Surely.”

She leads him around her two bedroom studio with pride, and her face discernibly lights up as she draws him across the balcony, which overlooked miles and miles of Manhattan buildings. Mary sips her tea, and Henry alters between lifting a coffee cup and a freshly-lit cigarette to his chapped lips. It’s quiet between them, save for boisterous town cars and pedestrians below, but the tranquility of his visit served to reconcile months lost to busy lives; given his matrimonial and entrepreneurial duty.

“I don’t… I don’t know quite what to _feel_ .” He begins slowly, his eyes narrowing as he gingerly selects each succeeding word. “About this -- _you_ , living _alone_ , in this _insidious city._ ”

“It’s nothing new, Henry. With you and Margaret married,” she swallows thickly, “and _Arthur_ gone, and mom and dad with their busy schedule and their busy lives, I know how to live alone. Besides, I’m still mulling over the idea of a roommate. Hesitantly.”

He reaches for her hand and she allows him to seize it. “Was it Alba or Camila who taught you to be so wise?”

Her mouth simpers at the mention of her au pairs, “neither. It was the maid.”

“I’ll ascertain that she works for Isabella, then…” A heavy sigh travels from deep within, as if he had been plagued with something great and troubling. “When Catherine and I split.”

“I think that would be--” Her mouth forms a perfect ‘o’, as her words hitch in her throat. _Split?_ “Henry…”

“Yes. I haven’t told Catherine yet, but I’m planning on divorcing her. It’s been in the works for some time now…” He cants his head, attempting to gauge his sister’s undecipherable expression, “I wanted you to be the first to know, as always. And I trust you can keep this tidbit between us until the time comes… Am I wrong to assume that?”

“ _Henry_ …Think rationally about this. After everything you went through... Is this about your son? Is it... the _grief_? There's couples therapy for–" 

Her brother shot up in his seat, an ire blushing to the tips of his hairline. “You think I haven’t thought about this? Do you think this is merely a whimsical fancy? I don’t want to leave Catherine-- I never have. But I don’t love her, Mary. I see her and I see… disappointment. A wife should be the reflection of her husband; and I do not care to live life  _disappointedly._ ”

The Big Apple had run itself mad and dry over Henry and Catherine’s initial relationship. Page six and the cover of nearly every gossip tabloid was theirs to claim as they bridged Trastamara Inc. and Tudor Enterprises Holdings together. And when the couple mourned the death of their first child, Manhattan mourned along with them.

Manhattan might have been nescient to it, but Mary knew in her heart of hearts that Catherine and Henry were never the pinnacle of love, nor the epitome of a healthy marriage; yet those kind of relationships were hard to come by luxuries in the social circles the Tudors ran in.

No, the social circles the Tudors _presided_ over.

Mary pauses, breathing calmly and relocating her composure, until she is much collected, and queries in a softer timbre, “Have you met someone else?”

"Christ, Mary,” he seethes.  

“You can’t expect me not to ask! Last month you were sending me postcards from Sicily, and now you’re serving Catherine divorce papers. Is -- there -- someone -- else?” Her words emit in staccatos as Henry begins to pace.

“No, there’s no one else. Not this time.”

Mary stands abruptly, copper waves of velveteen hair falling to her waist, a sigh of mitigation releasing from her stomach. “I think you should leave.”

“Leave? I just got here.”

“Henry. This isn’t my place.”

“Isn’t your place? You’re my sister. If there’s one person who should be hearing this, it’s you.”

“No, no, if there’s one person who should be hearing this, it’s your _wife_ . Henry, I won’t lie for you. I won’t lie to Catherine as you bide your time to leave her. When do you plan on doing it, anyway? On your _anniversary,_ perhaps?”

He frowns, “after Percy’s wedding.”

She’s taken aback for a moment, having forgotten the forthcoming marriage of Marie Talbot and Harry Percy. After all, she is a bridesmaid.

Biting down on her lip, she picks up the coffee cups from the table and makes her way inside, Henry rapidly following after her with his long strides.

“She loves weddings. I don’t want there to be discomfiture between us and I surely don’t intend to ruin Percy’s night.” When she remains silent, he continues: “Mary, I trusted you.”

Pivoting on her heel, Mary sets the cups down, her mouth pulling at the corners.

“I really wish you hadn’t.”

* * *

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when a girl is told a secret, she tells no one but her best friend. And since Jane Popincourt is merely an extension of herself, Mary entrusts her with the details of Henry Tudor’s marital plans as they wait in one of New York’s most lavish bridal boutiques.

“He’s not fucking with anyone?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Mary pauses for a moment. “No,” she says strongly, “he would’ve told me.”

Jane rolls her eyes, “you’re too earnest. Lying is a man’s practise; they always keep it in trade.”

“Not Henry.”

“Right.” Her words are bitter. “So, assumingly, in this ivory tower you’ve locked yourself in, he’ll be single?”

“Jane! He’s not even divorced yet. Retract the claws.”

The evening before Henry met Catherine, he slept with Jane; someone he’d heretofore only seen as his sister’s little friend. But Jane still held hope close to her bosom yet, despite Henry scarcely remembering the salacious details of that soused night. Jane had given up the possibility of him coming to his senses ages ago, but with his imminent divorce ringing bells in her ear, a beacon of light shined over her world.

Mary could only snicker at her resigned fancies, without divulging the whole truth of her disapproval to Jane.

In a billow of white and pastel hues, Marie Talbot flitted from the dressing room, her arms outstretched as she twirls in delight. Mary and Jane accumulate around her, fixing the dress into place and admiring it.

The dress was light and blouson and sleeveless, a slinky amalgamate of intricate lace swatches and bolts of chiffon. Mary thanked her God that it suited her friend remarkably well, considering the hours they beguiled in the very same boutique. She began to rock on her heels as a pain crept up the length of her spine and a hunger gnawed at her insides.

“Jane, get the veil! I want to see it on!” Marie cries, turning to Mary. “What do you think? Is this the one?”

“It’s perfect,” she sighs, “and you’re beautiful. And I love it.”

“But is it, you know, the one I’ll look back on in fifty years and marvel over? Is it too… Contemporary? Modern? Light? I have no idea what Harry is going for…”

 Jane comes behind Marie, situating a small veil over her blonde tresses. “ _Honey_ ,” She begins, and Mary swallows despairingly, well acquainted with Jane’s habit of speaking whatever comes to mind, “the only concern Harry has for your dress is getting you _out_ of it. Besides, it’s a summer wedding in the Hamptons. If it was any heavier you’d pass out of heat exhaustion.”

Rushing tears tainted Marie’s hearty chuckle. “This is the one. I know it. God, look at me; I swear, wedding hormones are not just a motif from a Heigl movie. You’ll pinch me if I get too sappy, right?”

“Already on it.”

 The sound of Marie’s phone buzzing caught the trios attention. “One sec,” she mumbles, waddling off the mirror rostrum and making way to her phone. “It’s Harry.”

Mary’s head perks at the sound of Marie’s betrothed. He mentioned the idea of grabbing a bite to eat with the girls this morning, and she direly hoped the plan would come to fruition. And soon.

Placing a hand over her stomach, she steps forward. “What’s it say?”

"Aw, he can’t make lunch. He has an interview with Norfolk.”

“Norfolk?” Mary repeats. Norfolk Inc. and Tudor Enterprises were sworn enemies; a rivalry to match the familial vie between the Capulets and the Montagues. “Anything important?”

“No. I don’t think so. I know there’s a position opening for VP, but I think it’s already been filled. Your brother and Harry were talking about it last week. It’s not like he’d contend for it anyway.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was just--”

“Oh! Wait here. Apparently, Charles Brandon is a candidate for the position. Who would’ve guessed? I thought we saw the last of that bastard’s career when he and Henry sundered. Anyway, we can probably go without him.” She waves her hand, dismissing the thought, “I’m craving Sushi. All in favour?”

Jane sidled behind Mary, recognizing her friend’s perplexity. “Ugh. I swear you were coddled by your nannies as a child. Harry’s going to squash him, Mary. If there’s anything left of his reputation to thwart, that is. There’s no way Brandon will get the position after good-ole’ Harry is done with him.” She pauses, pressing her lips in a firm line. “When you mess with a Tudor, you mess with all of us. Don’t be so naive.” Turning to Marie, she nods. “Sushi sounds wonderful. After all, revenge is a dish best served _cold_ in these neck of the woods _._ ”

 

* * *

 

“George, you’re turning blue. _Breathe._ ”

Mia narrows her eyes at her younger brother as he rams Japanese Donuts in his mouth, forcing them down his gullet with two chopsticks. She smiles distastefully at him, gingerly pushing a napkin his way as frosting cleaves to his insipid beard.

“I’m a nervous eater,” he explains, wiping his chin. “It can’t be helped.”

Clasping perfectly-manicured hands under her sculpted chin, Mia releases a chuckle. “That isn’t a real thing.”

Her attention averts to the middle child of the Boleyn trio, Anne, and her downcast gaze. Her eyes were tumid and rimmed with red, her habitual blaze having been quenched by a man Mia knew could only breed heartbreak and dissatisfaction. It was a miracle in and of itself that her sister conceded to joining her for lunch, after spending nigh on a week under the comfort of her unwashed duvet.

She rubs her temples with a heaved sigh; her patience exhausting by the minute. The scrutinizing gaze of a woman well experienced in the woes of the world remained upon the lacquered table, her nose furling as Anne continued to sigh, and George emptied the contents of his drink in a mighty drought.

“I’ll be right back,” George mumbles, finding his footing and excusing himself to the restroom. He pauses, inspired by something undecipherable to Mia, and turns back around, “if you see the waiter, order another round.”

Though she nods, Mia harbors no plans to do so, and simply waggles her fingers at her youngest sibling’s retreating form, before reaching over and giving Anne’s hand a comforting squeeze.

Her skin burns as Anne rapidly yanks her hand away.

“ _Anne,_ ” her voice is low enough to mimic sincerity despite underlying irritation, “it’s been a week.”

“I need time.”

A simper breached past her comely lips. “Breakups _never_ get better, but having your boyfriend dump you and propose to another girl in the same breath only happens _once_ in a lifetime. This sort of languor shouldn’t inhibit you from getting back out there.” She grins, “and you _know_ , rebound sex is much better than that run-of-the-mill relationship sex. That I can promise you.”  

The corners of her lip raise in feigned disgust.

“Look, all I’m saying is that sometimes the recipe for getting over someone, is getting under someone else.” A wink accompanies her haughty words. “Someone _better._ ”

“And that’s worked _so_ well for you?” Anne contemplates for a moment, before leaning forward, her hands knitted together. “Who, though? Men of my caliber come few and far between, and these trust-fund brats are getting on my last and final nerves. They’re entitled. And petty. And heartbreakers, the lot of them.”

“What about him?” Mia points to a man sitting alone at the bar. “He looks poor and lonely.”

Anne follows her sister’s subtle gesture. “He’s, we–” Her mouth falls open, “Oh my God, the devil herself is here.”

“What? Who?”

“Right there– next to Popincourt.”

“Is that… Marie?”

“I thought we agreed she was _She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”_

“Oh my God, that is her! Damn it, she looks amazing, too.”

Anne reflexively adjusted her mangly hair. “Shit. Why didn’t you tell me to put on makeup before we left?”

Mia frowns deeply, muttering dryly, “I did.”

Her eyes cast over Marie and her party of three, a single trimmed brow raising in deliberation. Jane Popincourt, Marie Talbot… She took a second glance.

Mary Tudor.

Though Mary’s back was turned to Mia: the tapering, red hair was unmistakable _. Just like her brother’s,_ she thought churlishly.

The very mention of the family her allegiance once belonged to pulled at the fault lines in her heart. Time and patience mended her wounded spirit as best as it could, but sporadic pangs beleaguered her at the resonance of his name. _Henry._

Henry was someone to her, more years ago than she can fathom to count, and had remained her favourite “what-if” of the ages. Henry Tudor was a man who wore the ‘perpetual bachelor’ title as if it were his favourite season-versatile coat, but Mia knew he liked the sight of her in his bed each morning– more than he’d care to admit. But Mia played the role of the other woman, and albeit she played it remarkably well, wretchedness would ceaselessly befall the other woman as a rule.

Besides the obvious distinction, there was not much of a difference between losing Henry and losing her best friend. He knew her eulogized achievements and disparaging downfalls; and she knew the recesses of his calamitous fears, and had etched her name in his heart. And then, all at once, she kept her escapades bottled inside, and in the succeeding moment she could no longer remember the route to his house nor the passage to his heart, which had been turned over, and given to an undeserving wife and tampering sister.

She wondered if her initials still burned through his soul.

But of course, in any situation as the one she had been thrust into, only the man would triumph; while women would be harried by the scars of a war they never enlisted in. Repetition would forever be history’s greatest love and she could not blame Catherine Tudor for her husband’s infidelity.

But she could blame Mary Tudor.

“Quit looking,” Anne quips, “they could see you.”

“Pft. They’re too far up their own asses to notice us.”

Mia adjusts in her seat, henceforth meditating each successive lash of her tongue. Anne had been abroad at the time of Henry and Mia’s amour, which had been highly secreted given the Boleyn’s and the Tudor’s responsibility to the upper echelons of society, despite the Boleyn’s paucity of fortune; and Mia had thus never sought Anne out as a comfort. She preferred to keep such a mortifying encounter between the immediate parties involved: Henry, Catherine, Mary, Henry’s father and herself.

Mia flags the waiter down, ordering another round, before George settles beside her again. “What’d I miss?”

Anne caught Mia’s eye with a warning look, “Nothing of import.”

“You okay?” He nudges Mia.

Her smile is uneasy but broad as she replies, “Perfect.”

George returns her gaiety with a shining gleam; probity between the wedges of his teeth. Mia loved her brother, as did everyone with the fortune of having met him, but there was never anything spectacular between them. He didn’t know her like Anne did.

Her gaze flits back to Mary as George and Anne help themselves to another round of drinks.

There were two definite, justified reasons why Mia despised Mary Tudor. Reasons that could not slip past her lips without a snarl accompanying.

First and foremost, she was a Tudor. The name alone was considered profane and sacrilegious at Norfolk, the company her doting uncle Thomas Howard ran with an iron fist and gilded crown. Whatever transpired between her and a certain Tudor in the past was gone. She was older now, wiser; fit to inherit a large, strapping portion of her uncle’s empire, and with her brother as the runner up for Vice President, the Boleyns’ rapid ascendance was orchestrated in full throttle.

In the second place, Mary had been the one to apprise Catherine of Henry’s extramarital affair. But dear Henry, who thought Mia had something to gain out of Catherine’s enlightenment, believed it was she who let the cat out of the bag, for little Mary Rose could do no wrong.

He never gave her the chance to defend herself as her memory died on his tongue. Mia swore with all of her will that Catherine could still taste her when her husband embraced her.

The Tudor trademark was resplendent and lustrous, red and wild, but as their long locks caricatured fire and flames – the Tudors could burn as easily as they could heal and wonder.

Her eyes glance down at her phone as the screen lights up.

 

> **From:** Charles Brandon
> 
> **SMS:** Tom needs you in the office.  
>  _Charles._

 

Mia rolls her eyes heavenward. Charles Brandon was not the man she wanted to hear from on a day like this.

Brandon has made his interest in Mia flagrant before, and once in a blue moon she has reciprocated his lustful affections, but she refuses to take such obvious bait, despite the fact that Charles pridefully maintained his position as the most handsome man at Norfolk Inc. In fact, he was the most handsome man in most rooms, but not exactly her type. Since Henry, she hasn’t been in the habit of sleeping with arbitrary men, gorgeous or otherwise, unless there’s something to reap beyond sexual satisfaction.

She isn’t callous, but by intellect conviction she finds herself immune to men with marble jaws and penchants for power plays against her “gentler” sex.

But it would seem that Charles’ interest in her has come at the perfect opportunity. Her attention elevates to Mary as she gathers her things, the smug expression never gone from her face, before looking back down at her phone, replying to Charles in a coquettish, succinct text.

 

> **TO:** Charles Brandon
> 
> **SMS:** I’ll be there as soon as I can… Wait for me? xo  
>  _Mia Boleyn._
> 
>  

Call this leveling the playing field or _finally_ getting even, but it’s an act that cannot be repressed or resisted. After all, Howard blood races through her veins and pools at her wrists.

Revenge is in her very makeup. Especially when the subject is a Tudor.

And she’s more than certain that a certain Mr Brandon will gladly facilitate her in her crusade.

How could he refuse when the reward was as sweet as the unattainable Mia Boleyn?

 

* * *

 

Beads of sweat trickle down the back of her neck, dampening her gossamer camisole. With a nearby clip, Mary fastens her rubescent curls into a top knot, a little card residing between her forefinger and thumb.

 

_Mary Rose Tudor…_

_Join us for Brunch & Bubbly in honor of _

_Edward Seymour and Annaliese Stanhope’s anniversary,_

_on Saturday, June 12th._

_The New York Palace Hotel._

 

Her eyes roam over the delicate calligraphy before pinning it to her calendar. 

In her youth, Mary had been a great fan of social gatherings, especially those held in celebration of her existence; but her twentieth year was rapidly approaching, and so was her advent to Columbia University. Her attention span wore thin and her smiles no longer broadened in genuine pleasure. But she played the part of a Tudor daughter like no other, born the last child of the self made mogul and renowned entrepreneur, Henry Tudor Sr, and performed in such a way that her presence was always requested amongst the upper echelons of New York society. 

Needless to say, her invitation came at no surprise.

Edward and Annaliese were some years older than herself, but she remembers their wedding fondly. She had been exceedingly pleased to have caught the bouquet at a tender fourteen years of age, and had been something of a romantic ever since. Annaliese scarcely allowed her to live down so indelible a memory.

But the Seymours and the Stanhopes were neutral, so her brother cautioned. Their loyalty neither lied with the Howards of Norfolk nor the Tudors; and therefore, they kept promises for no one but themselves. It would behoove her to survey those in attendance before making any sudden movements. 

Pulling out her phone, she swiped it open and sent out two quick texts.

 

>  
> 
> To: Jane Popincourt ♥
> 
> SMS: Did U get invite for Brunch on the 12th?
> 
> To: Hank Tudor  ♥ ♥
> 
> SMS: Did you get invited for the Seymour Brunch?? xoxox Maryyy
> 
>  

Within a moment’s time, both Henry and Jane had confirmed their presence, filling her heart with expectation.

 

> From: Hank Tudor  ♥ ♥
> 
> SMS: Catherine is coming as well.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mary,” she says, her voice as clear as day, “I need you to seduce Mary Tudor. Break her heart.”

They play this game: cat and mouse, lion and prey, and it’s interesting until she begins to lose.

Her back is pressed against a wall, and his lips hover inches from her neck as her leg wraps around his and he cages her in with his broad body. But she won’t give in. Not until she gets exactly what she wants. Sanctioning him to assume that he held the upperhand was all apart of her master plan.

“Charles,” she sighs, softly, “ _Charles._ ”

“ _Mia_ …”

“I need a favour. From you.”

His hand seizes the back of her thigh, hiking her knee over his hip. “Isn’t this one?” 

“Do you want to fuck me, Charles?” She tilts her head to the side, a display of misguided innocence crossing her features.

“Aren’t I?” He hitches her upwards against the wall, paint laminas descending to the floor. “You waiting for an invitation or something?”

He’s asinine, she deduces, as he grinds against her core, anticipating a moan to elicit from her part lips. “Patience is a virtue,” Mia retaliates.

“Blue balls isn’t. Are we gonna fuck or what?”

“Surely I deserve something more than my Uncle’s break-room.” Repelled, her scintillating eyes cast around the strait cubicle. But she adopts her previous persona, and states with an air of seduction, “I know how badly you want this. And I do too. But I need something from you; something more than your…” Mia tilts her chin downward, her gaze falling to her hands as they toy with his heavy zipper.

“Bartering services for sex sounds vaguely like prostitution,” he deadpans, “correct me if I’m wrong.” 

She presses her lips together. Mia was no prostitute, but she had never been hesitant to do what she needed in order to thrive.

A deep breath rises in her bosom. “All sex is trade and exchange. There’s the risk of failure in everything.”

He cocks his head, so she resumes, “when you buy a girl a drink at a bar, you expect her to fuck you. And when you go down on someone, you expect _some_ kind of reciprocation… If _you’re_ as good as _they_ say.”

Charles raises his brows, evidently pleased by his preceding reputation. She represses the rising bile in her throat. “No one’s ever asked for their money back.”

_Fiend. Little wonder as to why he and Henry were as thick as thieves. Both obnoxiously proud and good looking._

Her head rolls to the side as she contemplates her words. “But – let’s say, hypothetically, she doesn’t.” His smile falls. “It’s a failed investment. You paid and she didn’t deliver. But there was no oral contract. You _failed_ and so she doesn’t owe you shit.” Her fingers dance across his vertically aligned buttons. “But with me… if you succeed, _I_ do. Aren’t those odds more appealing? You get fucked, and I get even. There’s no contract, but oral isn’t out of the question either.”

“Get even with _who,_ exactly?”

She grins as he slowly but surely takes the bait.

Her nimble digits pull his zipper downward, her hand pressing flush against his length. “Mary,” she says, her voice as clear as day, “I need you to seduce Mary Tudor. Break her heart.”  

“Mia,” he counters, “I knew her when she was a kid. That isn’t right.”

“The best things aren’t.” She connects her lips with a warm stretch of his neck. “I mean… unless you don’t think you can do it? Perhaps this is too daunting a challenge. The Tudor’s prized jewel… Henry’s _favourite_ sister… She would be your greatest conquest yet. Word has it that her tight little bod has never been touched. She’s _unattainable,_ Charles. The baby of the family– but entirely legal otherwise.”

Mia pulls away as his face turns to stone, and collects her loose hair in her hand. “And here I thought you were famous for your seduction skills. Guess not everyone’s up for the chase. Ah, well– I’m sure I can find someone else to get the job done.”

“Wait,” he stops her, adamant. “If I screw her, the prize is you?”

“Yes.” She is just as firm. “However you like me. At your every beck and call.”

Charles clarifies, “For the weekend.”

Mia suppresses a frown, but concedes nonetheless. “ _For the weekend._ All yours…  And, to sweeten the pot, that little position you’ve had your eye on since you came to Norfolk? My _uncle’s_ position – could be yours as soon as he steps down.” Little compunction flutters within her breasts as she says this; after all, there was no way Thomas Howard, a shrewd businessman, would give the Vice Presidency to a man like George, as much as it pained her to say it.  

Charles had been a top candidate since the beginning, but Mia pushed for George.

All could be altered with a change of heart.

“Allow me to elaborate. My Uncle wanted you. Of course he did; just look at you. You’re an overachiever. You’d kill it as Vice President. But my uncle is also very family oriented, and he values my opinion above all else. I have desperately persuaded him to pick my brother for the slot in the past, but we both know a man like George would only impede Norfolk’s success. Whereas you’d kill _it_ , my brother might actually _kill it._ One unalloyed testimonial on my part and the position could be yours,” she snaps, “like that.”

“Jesus Christ…” He rubs his forehead. “You’d throw your brother under the bus that quickly? Why are you so hellbent on destroying this girl?”

_Why are you so difficult to manipulate?_

“I’m not crazy, Charles– don’t look at me like that; I have my reasons. You know how the Tudors operate better than anyone. Mary Tudor is a tattletale, and they never taught her not to fuck with a Howard at that country day school of hers. It’s high time she figures it out… but, on the other hand, it can’t be traced back to me. Such would be unseemly for a woman of my prestige, and besides, I like being the favourite Boleyn.

Better yet, I’d like to see her knocked down a peg or two.” _Take the bait Brandon._ “And Henry– God, the man who damn near ruined your rep – would be devastated to know that no man’s land has been subjugated by none other than Charles Brandon.” Her fingers ghost over the hem of his boxers, “are you in, or are you out?”

“ _Charles._ I won’t ask a third time.”

He narrows her eyes at her as her hand lowers, gripping him with a feather-light touch. “Do we have a deal?”  


* * *

 

“The symbol of purity and chastity.”

Catherine’s words are spoken sweet and soft, a modicum of her Spanish accent issuing from her voice, as she lowers the necklace over Mary’s head. The dip of her clavicle submerges a sacred white Lotus into her pale skin. 

By reflex, Mary’s smile broadens and her hand travels to the column of her throat, lithe digits pirouetting across the pendant. She turns to her sister in law, emerald eyes coruscating, “Lovely. Simply lovely. Thank you, Catherine.”

“It is my pleasure.” Catherine reminiscences fondly, “It was my mother’s… I have not gone a day without seeing it. But it belongs to you now. Please enjoy it, Mary. And pass it along to whomever you see fit.”

“You know I will, Cat.” Mary tosses her hair over her shoulder, running her hands across the front of her dress lest any creases manifest. It was nearing the eight hour and brunch would ensue any minute now; but no comme il faut social rendezvous ever began without a Tudor in the room. “Shall we go?”

Her sister-in-law nods, her face merry with colour.

Mary becomes a cathedral of remorse as she looks at Catherine. But it’s better this way, for she couldn’t bear to tell Catherine herself, but such was selfishness in itself. 

How Henry could think of divorcing so well mannered and even-tempered a woman was beyond Mary’s reasoning. Though she had once prided herself on knowing her brother better than most, his story had evanesced into a language she could not fathom anymore. Everything about him; his endeavors, expressions and fancies; became Greek to her.

She no longer enjoyed what they translated into.

And perhaps deep, deep within, Mary hoped that Henry would meet a renaissance between now and Marie’s wedding, and come to realise that there was no better woman for him than the one he married. After all, such was God’s will.

They arrive at The New York Palace Hotel (fashionably called “The Palace”, Henry told Catherine in the cab, his eyes never leaving the streets), at half past nine. The event is in full swing; mimosas are passed, champagne is popped, congratulations are proffered and tears of joy are shed as sickeningly sweet nuptial photographs are dispersed amongst those in attendance.

But it is Annaleise Stanhope-Seymour’s swelling stomach that captures the attention of many an attendee– and like moths to a flame, ladies and gentlemen flock around the woman of honour to bask in her little boy’s rapid kicks.

“Love,” she sighs, gazing upwards at the face of Edward Seymour, “who knew it felt like punches to the gut?”

Laughter is omnipresent as Mary slinks away to fetch a libation.

She nibbles on an oblong pastry, drizzled in chocolate, as Jane Popincourt approaches, an empty flute between her fingertips. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s pregnant women… but people seem to _love_ them, I guess.”  

“Oh– be nice. Did you see her feet? They’re the size of pomegranates.”

“Just think, Mary, one day _you_ could be so lucky as to have a stomach like Venus and a husband whose eyes follow more people than the Mona Lisa.”

Mary snorts, “Edward isn’t that bad.” 

“You would be singing a different tune if you knew about that little tryst we had in the bathroom this morning.”

“Jane! Keep your voice down.”

“Oh, we did. He had his hand clamped over my mouth and everything. But well, my mouth was a little busy also.”

“You’re bad,” she shakes her head, “so, so bad.”

“Speaking of bad…” Jane’s words die on her tongue as her attention reflects upward. “Look at who just arrived.”

A low whistle absconds past her lips as Mary turns around to take a peek, her eyes falling upon the brawny figure of Charles Brandon. That man aged like fine wine, she noted, and his bone structure would put Michelangelo to shame; with his rugged features and sharp edges. He strode like the paragon of a debonair, shrewd, assessing and quick on his feet, but she—and all of Manhattan—knew of his concupiscent ways. Henry had specifically warned her against him and thus she quickly relocated her thoughts back to Jane, and her illicit meetings with married men. 

Her voice lowers, “He’s looking straight at us.”

“Should I tell him to back off? I know you prefer the married variety.”

“Oh shut up, as if Brandon isn’t taken.” The corners of Jane’s lips lift, “so he’s the perfect candidate, right?”  

When Charles turns away, surveying the room, Jane hitches her skirt upward and pushes her shirt downwards, exposing more of her ample cleavage.

“Just in case,” she winks.

 

* * *

 

With each passing hour, the guest list proliferates a tenth fold. Henry stands idly by Catherine, Jane and Edward share not-so-secret smiles, and two Boleyn siblings, George and Anne, make their arrival a little after ten. Others trickle in, far too many to mention, but those who approach Mary share a nod of approval with Henry in readiness. She rhapsodizes Columbia, or gushes about the Stanhope-Seymour union and the lovely concourse Annaliese prepared, but her colloquis never press beyond badinage and she turns to refreshments for comfort.

She plops a garden-fresh grape into her mouth, appraising the banquet displayed before her, and compares it to one her mother prepared last autumn, for Thanksgiving. But her mother’s voice rings in her head the moment the thought processes; _comparisons are never equitable, especially in juxtaposition to a family like ours._

A warm, large hand catches her attention as it sprawls against her lower back – dangerously low, if you asked her – and traverses across her arm. The host of such an audacious hand sidles up next to her; nonchalant and suave. Charles Brandon capriciously plucks a strawberry from an intricate platter, gleams at her, his elevated lips revealing a strong row of teeth, creases surrounding his smile manifesting, and she begins to choke; her grape having plummeted down the wrong column.

The grape perfectly occludes her airway, and her eyes widen as her breath rapidly dissipates.

Charles hoists the fruit to his lips as her retches expel in pants, and her hand travels to the pendant at her throat. Mary patently gasps for breath, endeavoring to lean on the smorgasbord for support, counting the seconds until a shadow casts over her peripheral. An oathe is muttered upon his lip before he reaches for her, pressing her flush against him, his arms around her waist and his chin above hers. His sillage assaults her senses– reminding her of a piquant cologne her father once wore, the smell of citrus and amber emanating from his touch.

She inwardly bellows, but the sound does not reach her lips, and her eyes augment to the size of saucers as his belt digs into her back. A fist is placed over her navel and, with her smaller frame in mind, he exerts assiduous albeit determined thrusts upon her abdomen until the culprit is coughed up into her palm. Her legs tremulous, she wobbles against Charles as he seeks to release her to no avail, her grip on his forearm ever tightening.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Mary grabs hold of her senses, her eyes averting to the wall in mortification, as Henry points a finger in Charles’ direction. “I said, what the fuck is going on here?”

“Three guesses, Henry,” Charles ripostes, adjusting his stance against her slumped frame. “What does it look like I’m doing? Your sister was suffocating.”

“Get your hands off her, Brandon.”

“Mary! My God, are you okay?” Annaliese approaches her, clutching the prominence of her abdomen as innate maternal compulsions kick in. That and, Mary suspects, her outlook on the world momentarily hazed, Annaliese didn’t intend for the Tudors to pilfer anymore of her limelight than they already had. No doubt headlines were already being written. “Come here– let’s get you comfortable. 

Brandon releases his dense grip on Mary’s hips as she steps forth, a small nod accompanying his stern glower. They share an ephemeral gaze, gratitude written clearly upon her face as his smell lingers on her skin.

A reservoir of anxiety-borne tears well in her eyes as Annaliese wraps her arms around her, attempting to tug her in her wayside, but Mary’s ginger hands never leave her throat, and her feet remain rooted to the ground as her brother and Brandon spew acrimonious insults.

Henry growls, “You just can’t keep your cock to yourself, can you?”

Their eyes meet and a blaze ferments between them, and though Mary couldn’t be sure if the fire would ever be snuffed out, she was certain that it was sparked many years ago. It had been nearly eight years since she saw the two together; and their reconciliation was decidedly less than ceremonious.

“That’s _rich_ coming from you. Where’s Catherine anyway? Still praying her husband will be able to get it up tonight?”

 “You’re disgusting.” He takes a step forward as Harry Percy cautiously ambles closer, “You’re twelve years her senior – that’s rather low, even for you, no?”

Percy shoos bystanders away, him and Marie sharing an unspoken nod of agreement to ward off any onlookers, should the brawl get any uglier than it had already rapidly become. 

“Get your Nabokov mind out of the gutter, Tudor. A Heimlich does not a pervert make.” He smirks. “Yet last I recall nineteen was the perfect age. Or was Kitty _eighteen?_ Sounds about ri–”

Mary’s eyebrows shoot up as Catherine intervenes, “ _Charles_. This isn’t the time or place to rehash old wounds.”

“And yet I have the decency to draw the line at things that don’t belong to me. Alas, I can’t say the same for you." 

Mary bit down on her bottom lip, realising in the elision of the moment, that they no longer feuded over her, but an unsolved bone of contention of the past. Rumours surrounding Henry’s fidelity and carnal inclinations had swarmed for years, but it was never until Brandon’s comments were uttered that Mary’s suspicions were raised, and to a fever-pitch at that. 

“ _Tu quoque_ , Tudor. Last I heard ‘Daddy Dearest’ paid your most-recent misdeed quite a pretty penny not to blab the sordid, mid-life crisis tale to the tabloids. Care to shed some light on that situation?”

Percy bulwarks Henry as he lurches for Charles, a fist of iron fruitlessly charged towards his chin. Brandon dodges the shot, his eyes narrowing at his old friend.

A shit eating grin touches Charles’ lips as he bends over in ersatz obeisance, “you’re welcome for saving her life, you fucking dick. Maybe next time you should look up from your phone.”

Henry struggles against Percy’s grip again as Charles adjusts his lapels, ever-suave, and runs a hand over his gelled curls. “It’s been a pleasure, Annaliese. When you find Edward, send him my thanks– and congratulations on the pregnancy. And Percy… I’ll see you at the wedding?”

Percy slowly weakens his grip on her brother, taking a look at the crowd their antics garnered.  “If you can fuckin’ behave yourself.”

Henry escapes his grasp and comports himself, accepting the glass of champagne Catherine proffers him as worry seeps into her azure gaze. She holds onto his arm, her head lulling onto his shoulder, but redamancy does not reach his eyes as he kisses the top of her copperhead. _Appeasing her._  

Annaliese tugs her away, but she looks back to catch a glimpse of the final play and shares a lasting gaze with Charles. Henry storms off, Catherine followingly blindly, and Charles laughs merrily with the hosts. _No harm, no foul._

“Did you seriously lose your breath over Charles Brandon, Mary?” Annaliese whispers in her ear. 

“I choked!”

 

* * *

 

Though Anne has been abridging every detail of the jentacular soiree Mia was unable to attend for the past hour, it wasn’t until twenty minutes ago that things got mildly intriguing. She replays the video of Henry Tudor launching himself at Charles Brandon time and again, her gaze incessantly falling on his little sister loitering in the background as new text messages continue to pour in.

 _She’s pathetic._  

_And if what Anne says is true, the start of their little lovers’ quarrel in the first place._

Mia catches sight of her invitation card, tacked on the side of her computer, and a slow chuckle slips past her lips, like honey decanting from a jar. So much for aubades and bubbly when Mary Tudor is in attendance.

How anyone could relish in a bucolic life was beyond her, when city gossip alone was _this_ invigorating.

Tapping her fingers against the lacquered desk, her eyes shift to her mobile device. Charles Brandon’s name lights up the screen for a quarter of a second before she answers his call. “Mia Boleyn.”

“Mia–hey, glad you answered. You busy?”

“Not at all.”  She grins like a cheshire cat, anticipation building in her chest. She knew he’d come crawling back, but never this soon. The handy she gave him in her uncle’s cubicle surely left an impression.

One only a fool would ignore; but then again, she couldn’t forget with whom she was speaking.

He takes a deep breath, “I’m in. I’m all yours. What do you need me to do to her?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Mr Brandon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Marie Talbot = Mary Talbot.  
> Harry Percy = Henry Percy.  
> Isabella Tudor = Mary I of England.  
> Mia Boleyn = Mary Boleyn.


End file.
